Devoted
by Cirvihi
Summary: Devotion. This was what many felt towards the man who was Kira, Light Yagami. A series of short stories showing the views, and feelings these individuals had towards their God.
1. Hopelessly Devoted

She knew he didn't love her.

But something inside of her always insisted that he did, and that he always would. That was why she'd give him anything: her time, her virginity, her life, her soul, her sanity: she would give him _anything_, just to try and make him happy.

Just to try to get him to love her.

Just once she wished he would show the need to have her, a true need, not one of his false proclamations of how he needed her to help him rule the new world. She knew. She _knew_ that when he said that it was a lie, but she never verbalized this to anyone. Perhaps she wanted to make herself believe that it was true, that she was wanted by him. That he saw her as something more than a hopelessly blind follower, the sacrificial lamb.

Maybe if she did as he said, just _maybe_, he would come to notice her, to appreciate her, or so she tried to make herself believe. Any attention would do really, any attention besides the lies and empty sweet-nothings he whispered into her ear. Whether the attention prompted him to cover her in sweet kisses, or to search her porcelain skin invasively with his hands, or to even pin her down and stare at her with a hungry, predatory look in his eyes. Anything, anything would be better than the **lies** he fed her, whether it be true attraction, or an abusive lust that would leave her body covered in angry purple and black bruises.

He was her savior, her avenging angel, her _**God**_. For him, she would do anything, anything for him to even think of her with a third of the reverence in which she held him, or even less. But she knew he could not, or rather, _would_ not do such a thing. Yet she could not bring herself to leave him. To him, she may have been dirt, but he was her **_God_**, and to separate herself from him, to leave the basking light of his glorious image would be to die.

That's why whenever he held her loosely, and said in a stoic, uncaring, and untruthful voice that he loved her, she smiled, but only half believed it. The rational side of her would deny it, warn her to leave, that his love was a lie, and she would never be wanted.

But rational thought always lost to emotion. She was an emotional person; it was what drove her, and the need to be around him, to feel his presence was essential to her life.

This is why Misa would only smile, and giggle, holding his tense form closer to her body, and bury her face into his warm chest.

She was hopelessly devoted.


	2. Worship

Kira. Savior.

_**God**_.

To him, as with many others these days, they are one in the same. The righteous deity who watched over all of his people lovingly, keeping them safe from the evils that had come to inhabit this corrupted world; who** purged** the world of all of the demons and devils that had come to inhabit the streets, the cities, and even the very homes they lived in.

The world had changed quickly since his God's rise to power: these demons now feared for their lives, hiding as if they thought it possible to escape the omniscient gaze of Kira, fearing for their very lives as his followers once feared for theirs. It was…satisfying to say the least. Satisfying to see the would-be-criminal flinch every time a new death was broadcasted over the news; obviously they were detoured from committing any acts of evil. It was satisfying every time he heard the cheers and prayers of gratitude every time justice was served to a filthy low life who would act in defiance against his God. Yes, his God, Kira, was powerful indeed.

But every God needed a disciple. And _**he**_ had been chosen.

There was no describing the transcendent bliss he felt upon receiving God's, _his_ God's, Bible, his holy book with which he passed judgment on those who would be deserving of death. He held it aloft in his hand, scanning over the sparse cover excessively, cradling it between gentle hands as if he was afraid that he might dirty it, defile it with his_ unworthy_ hands. His God, _Kira_, had chosen him to carry out judgment over the hellish fiends that wandered the streets, had chosen him to carry out his divine executions on the filthy, undeserving mongrels that filled the world's prison, had chosen him to uphold the divine law that he had set down with his unfathomable power. **He had been chosen.**

And he would **not** disappoint.

One by one, he carried out judgment upon the wicked as his God, Lord Kira would see fit, deleting those individuals from the face of his sacred kingdom. It became a chant: "_Delete, delete, delete_." Delete them from the world of the living, eradicate them from the face of existence. Their names became a blur on the page, so fast and vigorous did he right them down, his usually stoic face tinted with excitement. They could not escape his vigilant gaze, they could not save themselves from his judgment. For once he saw their face, he knew their name. And once he knew their name, he wrote it in Kira's little book of Death, and waited patiently for the time in which their execution would be carried out.

So Teru Mikami, Kira's Executioner, continues his slaughter of the undeserving, his devotion to his God shown through his worship through the pen.

--

Author's Note:

Eh, sorry for the crappiness. It's longer than the previous chapter, but I don't think it quite stands on the same literairy level as its predicessor.

Lawl, you can tell that I don't spell check the A/N. ;D

Cirvihi


	3. Blind

He had always imagined his first born would be a son.

So perhaps it was destiny that saw the squealing baby boy placed in the warm nook of his arms one February morning. Perhaps it was destiny that opened the child's eyes to look up into his father's own, destiny that halted the tiny mewls the baby seemed to have been emitting for hours after his birth.  
From then on he decided that his son could _never_ do wrong.

As the years went by, his conviction of this only grew. By age four his son, his little boy, was already a polite, well behaved child. While other parents were struggling with their children during the "terrible toddler" years, he found himself hardly, if ever, reprimanding his own child. In fact, the boy's level of maturity seemed to be well beyond that of even some of his fellow employees. His son's days were not spent playing in depthless puddles of mud while wearing new clothes, nor were they spent drawing "Mona Lisa's" and other such "works of art" on the open canvas of the living-room walls. Instead he could often find his son curled up on his bed reading a book way more advanced than his reading level should allow him to at that age, or outside riding a bike or doing some sort of physical activity.  
His son was a _blessing_.

By age ten it was obvious he, academically speaking, far surpassed any of his peers. Not only that, but he had not trouble trumping everyone in his gym class as well. Teachers, peers, and other parents alike **adored** the little boy; so charismatic and charming was he. It was often his father received complements on the child's upbringing; he must be quite an excellent father to have such a studious and well mannered young man. But the truth was it was never he that influenced the child, if anything his boy parented him. It was quite a common occurrence for his little prodigy to relay to him so new bit of information, or offer advice on mannerisms.  
None of the aforementioned people adored his little boy more than he did. None of them loved the little child that stayed up late into the hours of the night to greet his work-weary father more than he.  
His son was _innocent_.

When he hit fifteen years of age, it was not uncommon for him to work with his father on various cases that left many at the department where his father worked flustered and confused. What would take grown men days, weeks, or even months to solve, the boy could unravel in hours. His cognitive ability was already far superior that that of his father's, though this didn't bother the older man in any way, enamored was he by his prodigious teen. In fact, the man was content to let his boy, now a young man, solve as many cases as the teen would take on, and never felt inferior to him because of it. The man loved watching his boy work, loved watching the excitement flicker in his eyes every time he got to work on a new case.  
His son was a _prodigy_.

So when the boy, now a man, was accused of the **unthinkable**, of the slaughtering of hundreds, he knew they had the wrong man. His son would never do something as brutal, as _mindless_ as playing God, never become a pretentious little cretin who idealized humanity.  
Or so he thought.

But the longer the case to find the one responsible, the more the man, the father, began to doubt this. He hated it. He hated himself for it, for being so weak, for giving in and admitting that maybe, maybe his son was not as innocent as he seemed.  
He hated himself for believing that the little baby that had looked up at him with those deep brown eyes could be capable of taking hundreds of live.  
Hated himself for believing he may have brought a young woman into this by charming her into becoming infatuated with him.  
Hated himself for believing he may have been orchestrating his victims' death by utilizing a little black book upon which he judged those who were not worthy.  
Hated himself for believing that it was his son that killed the brilliant young detective in order to rid himself of any enemy.  
He hated himself for this doubt up until his deathbed, when his eyes lingered up to meet his son's, their roles now reversed from when his boy had been born.

Looking above his child's head, all doubt was erased.  
The numbers that showed his lifespan sat atop his head like a morbid little halo, their red shining only in his eyes.  
The old man, the father smiled, and closed his eyes for the last time.

Soichiro Yagami died knowing his son was not Kira.  
Soichiro Yagami died **_blind_**.

* * *

Author's Note:

I do apologize for the un-Godly late publication of this chapter.  
I may be redoing this later, as I do not think it is quite up to par with the other two.  
But for now I'm putting it up to read.

~Cirvihi


End file.
